


The Crown of the Sun Radiant

by MayhemCirheryn



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Expanded Middle Earth, F/M, Fourth Age, Gen, Gondor, Harad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:44:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayhemCirheryn/pseuds/MayhemCirheryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the year 82 of the Fourth Age. For the first time since the fall of Barad-dur and after decades of intermittent war, a contingent of Haradrim is coming to Minas Tirith to discuss peace. But Eldarion is uncertain. Having fought the Southrons and grown up on stories of their wickedness, he is sure that Gondor doesn't need such allies. The Queen of the Haradrim, however, seems to think otherwise.</p><p>New to her rightful throne after a long and bloody struggle against the usurper who killed her grandfather, Jayashri em Shanav Amirak knows that her people are as tired of war as she. She also knows that the North Men are ignorant of Kiyar and its ways. The Prince of Gondor, however, seems to think otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The North Man Comes

**Author's Note:**

> The people of Harad and the other Southeastern lands are described as 'wicked' and servants of Sauron, and it seems to be assumed by no few characters that this is a natural inclination for them. But there's something important to consider: everything Gondor knows about Harad and its people comes from the perspective of Numenorian explorers. It's an outsider's perspective, and by the Third Age, an ancient one that no longer applies. 
> 
> The inspiration for this story is the idea that everything assumed about the Haradrim is false, and it's high time that Gondor learned it.

Year 82 of the Fourth Age  
  
A breeze off the distant sea brushed in, making the diaphanous blue hangings in the windows of her solar flutter. Jayashri was glad of its coolness. The palace had been built to resist the gaze of the sun, but it was summer and even here in the oasis capital of Kurafka, the air could stick and swelter. She lifted her elaborate black braids away from her neck, leaning against the window frame.  
  
“Lord of Rivers, it's hot today,” she said. “Even for me. I thought I'd sweat to death hearing grievances all afternoon with that cloak around me.”  
  
“Ah, makes you long for the steppe-lands,” Nomiki said, stretching and shaking herself before flopping down onto a couch. Like all her family, the Khandari woman's mannerisms were lupine even in her human skin.  
  
“Almost,” Jayashri agreed, smiling at her long time friend. “Though why a cloak so heavy is part of the royal regalia in a land so warm as this I never will comprehend.”  
  
“You could always change the regalia,” Nomiki suggested, but Jayashri shook her head.  
  
“I can do no such thing,” she said. “My rule is barely a year old and if I am to lead my people into peace and plenty, I must follow the old customs and be seen to follow them. Had my mother lived to fight, she would have done the same.”  
  
There was a quiet moment, as there always was at mention of her mother. Shanav em Hurankar had spent every moment of her life in pursuit of rebellion against the Usurper who had slaughtered her father and her brothers, but she had not lived to see that rebellion begin. Jayashri had begun it in her stead and after two years of blood and fear and hunger, she had slain the usurper in the Hall of the Heavens itself and thus ended it. At twenty-one years of age, Kiyar—and all its troubles—was hers.  
  
A rapid knocking on the door of the solar interrupted her thoughts. She nodded and Nomiki sprang up to open it.  
  
An old man in a cerulean robe, his wool-like hair a stark grey against the smooth jet of his skin entered and knelt before her, kissing the fingers of his right hand and touching them to his forehead in the traditional courtesy. His left hand clutched a tall, wooden staff.  
  
“He has come, Amirak,” the Isron said, leaning on the staff to stand.  
  
“Who has come, Mahir?” Jayashri asked. Concern was plain on his face and that was never a sign she enjoyed seeing.  
  
“The emissary of the Northern king,” Mahir said. “As he did to your grandfather when the Lord of Thirst fell.”  
  
Jayashri felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Where is he now?”  
  
“He has just passed under the Serpent Gate. Where shall you receive him?”  
  
“In the Hall of the Heavens, of course!” Jayashri exclaimed, gesturing for Nomiki to help her back into the heavy, red cloak. “I would have this barbarian North Man see what wonders we can make. Nomiki, call for Dessa. The two of you should make a striking impression.”  
  
The taller woman loped from the room and as soon as Mahir set the ornate crown upon her head, Jayashri followed, swallowing against her heart hammering in her throat. Her mother had told her tales of this emissary. In that year when the Lord of Thirst fell and her grandfather, Hurankar, had returned from his family's long exile in the wilds to heal his people, the first North Man had come riding to Kurafka. As her mother had told it, the North Man had demanded surrender and Hurankar Amirak had sent him away with hot and angry words in his ears. Yet another had come, every year without fail. For forty years they came and for forty years they went home, their message unheeded. When Jayashri had asked her mother why this was, she had turned fiery: _“This King of the Stone Lands sought us to beg his pardon for our suffering,_ ” she would say. _“We are Kiyarat, Jayashri! We shall not bow and scrape and make apology for what was done to us!”_  
  
Her grandfather had been no friend of the Northerner King, but there had been no war between them.  
But the Usurper had come. Hashrik, the Fallen Isron, with all his ash magics. When that year the North Man came, all that returned was his head and war had soon raged like fast fever along the River Harnen. War for which the people paid the highest toll, as they ever had. In the end the Northerner king had taken what he wanted, and all between the Rivers Poros and Harnen was Kiyar no longer.  
  
But now the Usurper Hashrik was dead by her hand and the emissary was come once more. There had been rumor in the North of the change in power, no doubt and the King of the Stone Lands had grown curious.  
  
They had reached the Hall of the Heavens. Despite her nerves and how much time she spent here, Jayashri was always struck a little breathless by its beauty. It was a long, wide room built of the same creamy stone shot with pink veins as the rest of the palace. Many high arched windows ran the length of it on either side, every other one detailing a scene from the history of her people in exquisite detail of colored glass and silver, the windows between open to the sky and the breezes. At the center of the room a fountain bubbled and splashed into a clear pool inlaid with blue tile. The water was drawn up from the sweet springs that lay beneath all of Kurafka and had been a gift to her people from the Lord of Rivers. In the days of the Shadow and the Usurper, this fountain and all the others had run dry. But what made the Hall of the Heavens a jewel and pride of Kiyar was its ceiling. High and vaulted, on it was painted the sky as it was in all hours. Over the western door was the black of night, filled with the glittering map of the stars and the chariot of the Moon, fading to lapis and the mingled deep purple twilight of silvers and golds and the jacinthe and rose flare of sunset over the fountain. From there it brightened even more, becoming pale blue swept with white cloud and bleeding into a crimson dawn, the rising sun radiant in gold above the throne. What power had preserved it from the ravages of the Lord of Thirst and the Fallen Isron after him when so much else had been destroyed beyond repair Jayashri didn't know, but she would be grateful to it all her days.  
  
She settled herself on her throne with the cloak arrayed around her, just as Nomiki and her equally looming sister, Yrdessa, slipped in and assumed a guard stance on either side of her. Jayashri had a fleeting thought that their sparse clothing—they wore no shoes and only short, loose jerkins and skirts, easily removed in case called to defend her—might shock or offend the emissary; she had heard Northerners had an odd preoccupation with modesty. If it put him off, let him swallow it, she thought. This was her court and her guard would dress as suited them.  
  
The far doors swung open and the emissary entered, led by Mahir. He was tall and ghostly looking like all Northerners, but well dressed in black and silver and he carried himself proudly. A white tree was emblazoned on his breast. Jayashri sent a brief prayer to the Maker of Words that her Common would be well enough.  
  
“Amirak, I present to you Elboron, Steward of the Northerner King,” Mahir announced and the emissary stepped forward to the edge of the low dais where she sat. He knelt, but made no other gesture.  
  
“In the name of Elessar Telcontar, High King of Gondor and Arnor I bring you greetings, Lady of the Haradrim,” he said in the Common Tongue and Jayashri arched an eyebrow at the name he gave her people. “I am sent here in good faith to treat with you and speak of peace.”  
  
“Rise, wanderer, and be welcome,” Jayashri said in her own speech and gestured to the pair of servants waiting at her side. They moved forward, one bearing an ornate cup, the other a plate of sliced melon.  
  
“You may stand, Elboron Steward of Gondor,” she said in Common. “It is custom in our lands to greet all guests thus and to offer water and fruit to refresh them of their journey.”  
  
If he found the ritual at all strange, he did not show it. Jayashri took the opportunity to observe him more closely. He was not so young as he had appeared from a distance. There were pale strands of silver in his dark hair and the faint lines of one who smiles much feathered about his eyes. When he had finished the melon, he quietly thanked the servants and she saw Mahir's eyes twinkle in approval.  
  
“Now, speaker for the North Men,” she continued. “Is the message you bring me the same as that which was brought to my grandfather, Hurankar, and to the usurper Hashrik?”  
  
That threw his footing some. “That much I must admit I do not know, my lady,” he said. “It has been many years since King Elessar has sent an emissary to these lands.”  
  
“Thirty-two to be precise, Steward Elboron,” Jayashri said with a soft smile. “That is not so many to your king, I think. But come! What is your message?”  
  
“On behalf of King Elessar I am sent to extend you the hand of friendship and welcome,” the Steward said and his voice was strong. “The King is desirous of peace between our peoples and invites you and any of your household to be his honored guests in Minas Tirith for the fostering of good will and to take counsel of each other.”  
  
“Does he indeed?” Jayashri murmured to herself. This was not the message she had expected. She had thought to hear something far more arrogant. “Mahir!”  
  
The Isron was at her side in moments. “What do you sense from him?” she asked, returning to her own speech for privacy's sake.  
  
“He finds us strange, Amirak,” Mahir said, keeping his voice low. “His horse was terrified of the mûmakil, as was he, and I suspect he thinks our people barbarous. But he is noble and I sense no lies from him.”  
  
“So he believes the intent of his message and that his king will honor it,” Jayashri said. “Is it possible  he would know his king's mind so well?”  
  
Mahir nodded. “He is Steward.”  
  
She frowned at the unfamiliar term. “So he called himself. What is his purpose? I gather he is more than a care-taker.”  
  
“Indeed. The Northerner king shows you great respect by sending this one. In times of war or when the king is away, he rules in his stead or else serves in parts of the realm where the king cannot be. His role is not unlike that of our tas-Amirak.”  
  
“With one great exception, I am sure,” Nomiki muttered wryly and Jayashri suppressed a smirk. It was true; she could not imagine that any of these Northerner nobles would share a spouse, even in name only. Still, this Elessar had sent her his closest advisor though he had every reason to fear she might kill him, as the Usurper had his predecessor. Not only had he shown respect for her station, he had shown her trust.  
  
“I am curious about these North Men, Mahir,” she said. “I think I will accept.”  
  
“If I may caution you,” Mahir said. “Your rule is young and you have no tas-Amirak. Who will sit here while you gallivant about the North?”  
  
“I will hardly be _gallivanting_ ,” she said. Mahir was wise, but old and he could be frustratingly fatherly to her at times. “Isron Khalat can speak for me while I'm gone, she's well-loved. This is something that must be done. I think perhaps Grandfather ought to have done it eighty years ago. Imagine if the Northerner king had been a friend to us when the Usurper came! Too long has there been mystery between our lands and mystery breeds fear.”  
  
She turned back to the emissary, who was standing patiently still. Once again she was pleased by his tact; if their obvious speaking about him in his presence had upset him, there was no sign of it.  
  
“I am inclined to accept your King's offer, Steward,” Jayashri said. “I, too, desire peace. However, my acceptance rests on a condition. My Isron tells me you speak with your king's voice. Is this so, and you may accept terms in his name that he will honor?”  
  
“I have that power to an extent, my lady, yes,” Elboron said. “Though I must know and judge this condition before I will swear my king to meet it.”  
  
“I would expect no less,” Jayshri said, smiling. “It is a simple thing. I will come and take counsel with your king in Minas Tirith, only if in future he shall consent to be our guest here in Kurafka. Our lands are much changed since last the Men of the North walked them.”  
  
Elboron returned her smile and some of the stiffness of formality faded. “That I can promise, lady, and gladly,” he said. “In truth, my king had hoped for such an arrangement.”  
  
“Then it is decided!” Jayashri said, standing and descending from her dais. Standing on level ground with him, she was struck by just how very tall these North Men really were. And she was not thought small. “Walk with me, Steward Elboron and we will discuss this further.”  
  
He inclined his head in a half-bow and fell in step with her. Silent as shadows, Nomiki and Yrdessa followed a few paces behind. She noticed him glancing about the room.  
  
“Do you find our craftsmanship pleasing?” she asked as he looked into the fountain.  
  
“I do, my lady,” he said. “I expect the king will find it so, as well. His daughters in particular will be pleased to make such a visit. And his youngest is most eager to see a mûmak.”  
  
Jayashri laughed. “Ah, Steward! She shall see one far sooner than that!”


	2. The Queen of Wolves

The guest quarters had been prepared. The Tower Guard had polished their helms to gleaming and they stood in impressive formation about the courtyard. The banners were flying from every turret and just yesterday the final plank of the strange stable, a hulking huge thing with vaulted doors, had been hammered into place. Even the Sun had seen fit to cooperate and shone down clear from a cloudless sky, a wonder in itself on such a late spring day. All was in readiness, and yet Eldarion, Prince of Gondor and Scion of Númenor, was ill at ease.  
  
He shifted from one foot to the other, squinting into the sunlight. It was early in the day yet and the light was in the east still. Looking out over the ramparts of the Citadel, he could no longer see the party of their guests inching ever towards them; they must be in the city now. It was days ago he had first been able to see them and the sight had filled him with foreboding, even glimpsed at such a distance. Word had come up from the Pelennor that morning of cottages and graineries barring their doors and more than one formidable grey-beard farmer with boyhood memories of smoking fields and homes in rubble sat outside those doors with bows or sickles at the ready. And who could blame them for it? Rubbing the jagged scar that creased into the corner of his eye and cut across his brow, Eldarion thought that perhaps in this they were wiser than his father.  
  
“Brooding over my soundness of mind again?” came his father's voice from behind him. Eldarion turned to see the king, regal in the formal attire of his station with the winged crown upon his silvering head. His dark hair was well frosted now, but to him his father seemed as ageless as he ever had.  
  
“I never doubt the soundness of your mind, Father,” he said. “But for all that you have shared your counsel with me, I am still uncertain of the wisdom of this agreement.”  
  
“I understand your misgivings, Eldarion,” the king said. “I too carry memories of battle against the Haradrim. They were a cruel people, then.”  
  
“That cruelty has not lessened,” Eldarion said, feeling his chest tighten with restrained bitterness. “If you mistrust them as I do, then what purpose can this arrangement serve? Why offer them this chance to study our defenses?”  
  
“We are not quartering Harad's armies, we are hosting its queen under a binding oath of diplomatic truce,” his father replied. “And besides, I have grown curious. There has been strange news out of Harad from the crossing at Harnen for some time. Not troubling news, simply...unique. I wished to see what manner of ruler this Jayashri is.”  
  
Eldarion wanted to make a scathing remark about a Southron's inability to act with anything but malice, but he held his tongue. “Elboron claims the Southrons call her the Queen of Wolves,” he said instead, hoping it would imply his concerns.  
  
“Yes, a most troubling title,” his father said. “Yet it may be we do not know the true meaning of it. Much may be lost from one tongue to another. Come. We must be ready to greet them. They had already entered the fifth circle when I came to find you.”  
  
Eldarion turned and followed his father into the courtyard where his mother and sisters were waiting on the steps. They were arrayed in finery as well, all silver-blues and rose-golds, and their loveliness would give any barbarian pause, he thought. Areleth, the eldest of his sisters and almost a mirror image of their mother but for the strength of her features, was fussing with the delicate circlet on Braigwen's head. Braigwen, for her part, seemed to have given up protesting such an invasion. Míriedis, between the two others in age at twenty-four years, seemed disinterested as she ever did at court proceedings, but Eldarion knew her mind was whirring like a spinning wheel behind those distant eyes. Little Celebrenil, only nine years of age and the only golden head among them, stood beside his mother, wide-eyed and clutching her hand.  
  
“Mother, should you be out and standing like this for so long?” he asked when he reached her, taking her hand and kissing her cheek. Unlike his father, there was not even a hint of frost in her black hair and there were no creases of age in her face. Sometimes, though, he thought her soft grey eyes grew very sad, almost tired and on those days she would stand at her window alone, staring out toward the distant sea; he knew what she thought of at those times. But today her face was bright and smiling.  
  
“You are as worrisome as your father,” she said. “This child will come at her time, and that is far from today. Unlike her impatient elder brother. Besides, I have my best healer attending me, do I not?”  
  
“And how is your patient doing today, Healer Celebrenil?” Eldarion asked, looking down at his littlest sister.  
  
“Very well,” she said, her earnestness making him smile again. “And so is our new sister! She kicked my hand this morning!”  
  
“Did she, indeed?” Aragorn said, joining them. “Perhaps we have another Braigwen on our hands.”  
  
“Eru, I hope not!” Areleth muttered, moving into her place beside their mother. “It's trouble enough with one of her.”  
  
“You were enthralled with riding at fifteen, as well I seem to recall,” the queen said with twinkle in her eye.  
  
“Indeed, Mother,” Areleth said. “But I did not bribe a blacksmith's apprentice in the fourth circle into fashioning me my own boar spear!”  
  
Eldarion suppressed a snort of laughter as he took his place at his father's side. His second youngest sister was certainly a handful; she kept everyone, including the Tower Guard, well on their toes. Areleth glared at him behind their parents' backs, then quickly stuck her tongue out at him. She may be thirty years old and betrothed, but she would be his little sister first and foremost all his days.  
  
“Ai, that child!” his father said, shaking his head but smiling all the same. “Perhaps we ought to send her to Arnor after all. A summer in the wild North might do well for her.”  
  
“Not this summer, my love,” his mother said. “No, not this summer.”  
  
Both Eldarion and his father noticed the faraway look in her eyes that she had when a glimpse foresight came over her, but there was no chance to ask what she had seen. At that moment, the trumpets sounded.  
  
Through the silver gates of the courtyard rode Elboron, the Steward, on his great grey charger and those of the Tower Guard who had gone down to serve as escort. Then came the strangest man Eldarion had ever seen. His skin was black as ink, his steely grey hair curled like sheep's wool. He wore deep blue robes that billowed around him and over the flanks of his slight, red horse and there was a tall black staff strapped across his back. Braced in his stirrup, he carried the standard. It was red and on it was a sun stitched in golden thread with a blue serpent around the inside, coiled into a circle and devouring its own tail. Eldarion was reminded very unexpectedly of the ring of Barahir that his father still wore. The man turned his horse to face them and began to speak. His voice rolled like summer thunder.  
  
“Her Imperial Highness Jayashri em-Shanav Amirak, Empress of Khand, Queen of Wolves, and True Sovereign of Kiyar and the Mo'savai!”  
  
Eldarion hoped he did not look as stunned as he felt. Empress of Khand? Where or what in Arda was Kiyar and the Mo'savai? He glanced at his father's face, but it was unreadable. If the king was thrown by this bewildering proclamation, he was taking it well in stride.  A man and woman in loose blue and gold clothing that was clearly a uniform came next, mounted on gleaming black horses of the same delicate build as the standard bearer's. The man was brown haired and the woman was fairer, but neither was dark-faced enough to be Haradrim. There was an air of quiet efficiency about their lean forms and something else more unnerving that Eldarion couldn't place.  
  
He did not have long to ponder it. Through the gate burst a woman who seemed to be crowned with the sun astride a horse who seemed to be spun from it. She wore flowing red garments of an unfamiliar cut that bared her tawny arms and wrapped tight around her slender form. Her black hair hung down her back in a single tight braid and on her head was a coronet of thin golden rays that flashed in the morning light. She managed her gleaming horse with one hand and held the halter of a larger one, riderless, with the other. She tossed her head and Eldarion saw a thin chain of gold set with miniscule rubies strung between her left ear and a small ring in her nose along the proud line of her jaw. She had the bearing of an eagle and her dark eyes were sharp.  
  
This, then, was the Queen of Harad. He had not expected her to be so young.  
  
Aragorn bowed and they all followed suit.  
  
“Welcome to Minas Tirith, your Highness,” he said. “The doors of my house are open to you.”  
  
“King Elessar,” the Southron queen said, inclining her head. Her Westron was clear, though strangely accented and her voice was smooth. “We thank you for your hospitality and for the faith you have shown in us. In appreciation and as a token of the new friendship between our kingdoms, we present to you this stallion of a kind bred only in our realms. They are swift and true and never falter in the chase. 'Children of the Hunter' they would be called in your speech. Only princes of our realms are permitted to ride those of this coloring and never before have the people of Khand allowed a stud to leave their steppes.”  
  
He was a truly stunning creature, Eldarion had to admit. He was not largely built, but his legs were long and his neck had a proud arch. His mane and plumed tail were white as cloud and his coat rippled as though his hide were cloth of gold rather than living flesh. He glanced down the steps at Braigwen, who he could see was fairly on her toes with the desire to throw her arms around the horse and inspect him closely. And then to ride him full tilt across the Pelennor, no doubt.  
  
“You honor us deeply with this gift,” his father said. “Truly, the people of the Southern lands are generous. But come! Be known to those I love best. Do not worry yourself for your horses. Our grooms will see to them well. They are young men of Rohan to the north, where horses are regarded as kin.”  
  
At her nod, the queen and all her attendants dismounted and the horses were led away. As she climbed the steps towards them, Eldarion noticed a large, gently curved dagger belted on her hip and his jaw clenched. In order to make a show of trust to their guests, his father did not wear Anduril as he would have done on any other ceremonial occasion, and he had requested Eldarion go without sword as well. And yet this Southron woman would come armed into the House of the King? She was the only member of the small contingent who carried a weapon, but it sat poorly with him all the same.  
  
“I wish to give you my personal thanks, lord-king,” she said when she reached them on the steps. “For the courtesy of your craftsmen in building the stable for our mûmakil. With your leave, I wish to reward all those who labored for their sakes.”  
  
His father would consent to that, Eldarion was certain, but just as he began to speak there was a small gasp.  
  
“Oh, are there really mûmakil, Father? Are there?” Celebrenil said, all formality of the moment forgotten. “Might I see them?”  
  
Eldarion felt a flash of fear as the queen arched one high, dark brow at his sister's outburst and the guards—for that's what he presumed the pair in blue must be—exchanged a look. Even his mother seemed anxious.  
  
“Ah,” the Southron queen said, and much to his shock, she knelt down before his sister there on the steps and she smiled. “So you are the littlest princess of the Northlands. I have heard of you.”  
  
“You have?” Celebrenil said, her eyes going wide as saucers. Eldarion thought his own might have done the same.  
  
“Your Steward Elboron told me of your wish to see our friends,” the queen said. “I will take you to visit them myself once they are rested. For now—”  
  
She turned to the blue-robed man and gestured, saying something to him in her quick, flitting language. He handed her a small box from the satchel over his shoulder. Celebrenil opened it and if possible, her eyes grew even wider. Inside was a simple carving of a mûmak with small tusks and its snake-like nose curled prettily beneath its open mouth. It was a creamy white and painted with intricate patterns in pink, bright blue, and gold.  
  
“It is carved from the tusk, but only when the creature has lived well and departed this world,” the queen explained. “We make these to honor and remember them. This one was made for a very fine cow, smaller than most, but gentle and fond of children. You must keep it safe for me.”  
  
Celebrenil clutched the little carving to her chest. “I promise I will,” she said.  
  
The queen stood and as his father went on with the introductions, Eldarion watched her. She bowed to his mother and spoke kind words to each of his sisters, even asking Braigwen her opinion of the gift stallion and promised to take her on the hunt for some sort of incredibly fast deer were she ever to visit Harad. She told Areleth of their weavers whose tapestries it was claimed had once hung in the King's House in Armenelos. She told Míriedis of their libraries and ancient texts of her people. Had Elboron told her what would interest them as well, or had she surmised it all from a look and a few shared words? She was younger than he had expected. She was more clever and more gracious than he had expected. Nothing about this barbarian queen was as he had expected. _But just what was it I was expecting?_ he wondered.  
  
“And here is the Prince Eldarion, my eldest and my heir.”  
  
She nodded to him and he bowed in return. Now that she stood before him he realized she was also taller than he had expected, among all the rest that had overturned his notions. She could meet his gaze without having to crane her neck as most ladies did, and the eyes that met his were extraordinary. He had never seen eyes so dark, such a deep brown they were almost shot with a red like color of wine. Her clothing and the rubies in the band of her coronet that circled her brow certainly helped that illusion.  
  
“Your father tells me you are to be my liaison and my guide,” she said. “I expect we shall learn much from each other. I am most interested in the peculiarities of the Northmen.”  
  
Before he could respond, she had turned back to his father.  
  
“My own household is small,” she was saying. “Mahir, Isron of the Fountain and my advisor in all things, who comes as well to represent the peoples of the Mo'Savai.” She gestured to the blue-robed man who, no longer burdened with the standard, was leaning on his black staff. Eldarion noticed his father watching him with a calculating but strangely sad expression.  
  
The queen indicated the man and woman on either side of her. “Eurik and Nomiki, my guards and my foster-kin, who come to represent Khand and the wolves that run there.”  
  
The guards bowed low and when they rose, the woman looked up at him and Eldarion felt the cold hand of shock seize him again. Now he knew what had unsettled him about this woman and her companion.  
  
The eyes staring up at him were a wolf's yellow. Still standing near him, the Queen of Wolves saw his surprise and her mouth twisted in a half-hidden smirk that only he seemed to notice.  
  


 


End file.
